Devil's Breath
by riley-poole27
Summary: Dennis Cleary, newcomer to Beacon Hills, starts using Devil's Breath, AKA the highly dangerous drug Scopolamine, to manipulate people into giving him money. One of his first targets, is the Sheriff's son, Stiles Stilinski.
1. Arrival

Dennis Cleary picked up the metal tin he'd carefully packed with Devil's Breath earlier that morning, and placed it in his pocket. He'd paid a small fortune for the Columbian white powder, and he had a list of uses for it. The scopolamine was derived from the borrachero tree, from the angel's trumpet flowers. Dennis had had a friend sneak it into the States in his luggage.

Dennis drove into Paradise, California, and followed the signs until he hit the gas station. He signalled, and turned into the parking lot. Dennis couldn't wait to try out his new stash, and he sat idling in his vehicle, scanning the patrons entering and leaving the tiny building for a solid ten minutes. Finally, he chose his first victim. The gas station attendant was short and pudgy, with thick black hair in his eyes. He walked with his hands nervously clasped in front of him, shoulders slumped as he approached the car. Dennis rolled down the window a few inches.

"Fill 'er up," Dennis instructed the man coldly. He watched the attendant work, noticing the nametag affixed crookedly to his work shirt. Gary, as the nametag read, would be the perfect subject to test how well his stash worked. The man looked unable to hurt anyone, or stand up for himself in any way. It would be interesting to see how he'd act while under the hypnotic effects of the drug.

Dennis got out of his vehicle, and went into the station to get his caffeine fix. He snapped up a half dozen energy drinks, and a bag of pork rinds, and dropped them onto the counter. He watched through the streaky window as the attendant used the squeegee to clean off the filthy windshield. He opened the tin, and took a pinch of Devil's Breath between his thumb and forefinger. He shoved the container back into his jacket pocket. Gary walked in, and started to ring up Dennis' order.

"Will that be on cash or credit, sir?" Gary asked. "Did you find everything you were looking for?"

"One more thing," Dennis said, raising his hand to his mouth. He blew the dust into Gary's face, and watched as the man inhaled in surprise.

"What was that?" Gary asked, confused.

"Open the till, and give me all the money," Dennis said, calmly. He popped open the energy drink, and took a swig. He watched the man take handfuls of bills and line the bottom of the bag, along with the drinks and pork rinds.

"Have a great day, now," Gary said, closing the till.

"Yeah," Dennis said. He contemplated leaving the gas station, but he wanted to use his subject another time. "Actually, if you don't mind, I'd like you to come with me for a few hours," Dennis said. Gary followed him out of the building, and they got into Dennis' car. A full tank of gas, enough drinks to last him a few days, and six hundred dollars richer. So far, the drug had all sorts of perks. He peeled out of the parking lot, and headed for the downtown strip.

"You and me, we're gonna have a helluva time," Dennis said. "Good thing you won't remember any of this when the drug wears off, you won't even be able to ID me or anything. You make the greatest partner in crime – perfectly willing to do anything I ask without question, and perfectly ditchable. I won't even have to kill you, or blackmail you for your silence. The Devil's Breath will take care of that all on its own."

Gary stared out the window, completely compliant, as Dennis drove up to the grocery store.

"I need food," He told the man, as they parked, and got out of the vehicle. "But you'll be footing the bill. Alright?"

"Sure thing," Gary told him, as Dennis started to fill up the shopping cart. He needed road-worthy food, like jars of peanut butter, and crackers. Apples, granola bars, bottles of water. Enough to fill up the trunk of his car.

When they got to the till, Gary pulled out his debit card, and paid for the bill.

"You don't work today?" The cashier asked, smacking her chewing gum loudly.

"Day off," Gary told her.

"Must be nice."

As they were about to leave the grocery store, Dennis spotted the ATM. He led Gary to the machine.

"Take out all your savings. I'll be needing it."

Once he had the money in hand, Dennis walked out the door, leaving Gary standing there. He didn't feel too bad ripping the man off, or leaving him stranded a few miles from work. Dennis had places to go, and he wasn't planning on bringing Gary with him. He didn't need him anymore, not after he got the free gas, food, and money. Gary was deadweight. Next stop - Beacon Hills, California.

Dennis pulled up at the motel, and went into the main office. He was on the main drag of Beacon Hills, across from the movie theatre, and two convenience stores. Dennis rented a room for the week, using Gary's stolen money to pay in cash.

He set his backpack on the bed, and looked around the hotel room. Taking in the flat screen TV mounted on the wall, mini fridge, and the ugly flowered comforter on the queen sized bed. It was a nice enough room, if a bit stuck in the past. Dennis grabbed the remote control, and turned on the local news. He wanted to size up the town, and the local news was perfect for research.

Dennis picked up the phone book, and flipped through it as the commercials played. He was starving – and not for the road trip food he'd bought last night in Paradise. It was six in the morning. The motel didn't have a restaurant attached, and he doubted that many places were open so early. He found an advertisement in the phone book for a pizza joint open 24/7, and called them up. Dennis ordered a large pizza with Italian sausage, and a box of chicken wings. He figured he'd splurge on a feast for breakfast, and save the remainder of the food for later that day.

He waited for the food, while he watched the rest of the news segments. Mostly boring, small-town stuff. Local politics, the weather, local lacrosse teams, nothing really astounding.

". . . And last night in Beacon Hills, police had two separate sightings of an animal downtown. Witnesses say it appeared to be a wolf-like creature walking on all fours. More on this story when we return."

Dennis' attention was piqued. A wolf, in California? Maybe something interesting would happen in this crummy town, after all. His thoughts were interrupted by the loud knocking on the door. He stood up, and yanked it open. The delivery man pulled out the pizza and wings, and handed it to Dennis.

"That'll be $32.58."

Dennis handed him a fifty dollar bill, and slammed the door. "Keep the change."

"Thanks!" The man called out, before walking back to his vehicle.

He opened the box, inhaling the succulent aroma of mouth watering, Dennis picked up a slice and took a bite. Pure heavenly. When he was done gorging on pizza, Dennis shoved the remainder into the mini fridge. He felt exhausted. Partially from being on the road for twelve hours the previous day, to the incoming food coma he was currently experiencing. Dennis pulled back the ugly, flowered comforter, and curled up on the bed. He was asleep within minutes.


	2. Choosing Stiles

Stiles walked into his dad's office, and sat on the edge of the desk. He had just finished lacrosse practised, when he'd received a text from his dad that he was still at work. He was filthy and exhausted from practise, and Stiles had a handful of fresh bruises on his chest and arms from lacrosse.

Stiles watched as Sheriff Stilinski pored over one of his files, his forehead creased in concentration. His dad's shift ended a few hours ago, and the Sheriff was still fervently working away.

"Dad, are we going home now?" Stiles asked. "It's like, eight o'clock. I'm starving."

"Five more minutes," John Stilinski promised, distracted. Stiles sighed, fidgeting with the coffee mug full of pens and pencils. He picked up a pen, and started clicking it repeatedly. The Sheriff continued reading, trying to block out the obnoxious sounds.

"How was practise? You and Scott had fun?" He asked.

"It was alright," Stiles shrugged. Stiles dropped the pen into the mug, and glanced around the familiar office. He leaned forward to sneak a look at the file, but his dad blocked his view with his arm. "You know the rules, Stiles," John told him. "This is confidential."

John glanced up, and saw his son's bruised, split knuckles gripping the edge of the desk. "Jeez, Stiles, your hand looks really bad."

"Yeah, I'm gonna put some ice on it when we get home," Stiles told him. "You nearly finished?"

The Sheriff rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, and closed the file. "Yeah, I'm done for the night," He said, standing up. Stiles watched as his dad locked up the file in the cabinet, and flicked off the light. "Let's go, kiddo," John said, grabbing his jacket on the way out of the station. Stiles and his dad nodded at the receptionist on the way out.

"What is this joker doing?" John said, watching the blue Cadillac speed up considerably in the next lane. He flicked on his police siren, and pulled over the vehicle.

"Stay in the car, Stiles," the Sheriff instructed. "I'll just be a minute."

He got out of the car, and walked over to the '87 Cadillace Broughman. The driver, a Korean male in his thirties, rolled down the window.

"There a reason you're going so fast?" John asked. "You were clocking eighty in a school zone."

"Sorry," the man shrugged. "My bad."

"Licence and registration, please."

"Can't you just let me off with a warning? I already apologized," the man said, annoyed. "It's dark out – I didn't see the school zone sign. I'm not from around here."

"Sir, I need to see your licence and registration," The Sheriff repeated.

Cursing under his breath, the man pulled out his wallet, and handed his driver's licence to the Sheriff. Dennis Cleary, aged thirty two, address listed as 22 Cedar Lane, Boise, Idaho.

John Stilinski wrote up a ticket, and handed it to the man. "Here you go, sir. Please refrain from speeding, alright?"

"Yeah, sure," the man said, sticking the ticket in the visor above his seat. He'd only been in town for one day, and he'd already been pulled over. Great, just great.

Dennis watched through his rear view mirror, as the Sheriff walked back to his vehicle. Dennis noticed the teenager sitting in the passenger seat, wearing the crimson lacrosse jersey. Dennis made a mental note of the kid's jersey number, 24. The kid would be an interesting choice for the Devil's Breath, seeing as how his douche of a father had pulled him over. It would be the perfect revenge for the Sheriff, if his son was busted for breaking the law.

As soon as Dennis got back to the motel, he booted up his laptop and google'd Beacon Hills. In particular, the Sheriff, and his teenaged son. After only a few minutes, Dennis knew the kid's name was Stiles. There'd been an obituary posted in the Beacon Hills Chronicle a few years ago, for the newly deceased Claudia Stilinski. He skimmed it briefly. ". . . _She is survived by her loving husband, Sheriff John Stilinski, and her young son, Stiles Stilinski_ . . ." Bingo, thought Dennis, as he bookmarked the page. Stiles definitely took after his mom, he was the spitting image of Claudia, not the blond-haired Sheriff.

Two days later, Dennis showed up at the high school. He parked in the lot, and watched the kids streaming out of the building after the bell had rung. He kept his eyes on the main door, hoping to spot the Sheriff's son. Finally, he was rewarded as he spotted Stiles walking alongside a latino kid with an armband tattoo. Dennis watched as Stiles parted ways with his friend, and pulled out his car keys. He hopped into the baby blue Jeep parked a few rows down. Dennis started his vehicle, and started to follow behind him, keeping his distance.

"Stiles, Hey!" Dennis called out to the teenager, as he followed him into the library. He watched as the teen turned around, looking at Dennis with zero recognition.

"Yo," He said, confused. "You talking to me?"

"Yeah," Dennis said. He leaned forward, the pinch of Devil's Breath between his fingers. He blew it into the kid's face, and watched with satisfaction as the kid inhaled sharply. He knew he had Stiles now, the teen was completely open to suggestion. Dennis put a hand on Stile's arm, and led him to his Jeep.

"You and me, we're gonna have some fun," Dennis said, grinning. "Now, let's go for a ride."


	3. Missing Drugs

Stiles was sleeping in the driver's seat of his Jeep, his chin on his chest. He woke up, looking around his Jeep in confusion. He took in the darkened parking lot, noticing the clock on his dash read 9:52 PM. Stiles knew something was wrong as soon as he looked down, and realized that he was wearing his blue plaid shirt, and star wars t-shirt. The last thing he could recall was walking into the library after school. He distinctly remembered that he had been wearing his favourite red hoody, and a black t-shirt. When had he changed clothes? Why was he even in his Jeep at all? What the hell was going on?

Stiles' arm itched terribly, and he started to scratch the painful skin. When he looked down, Stiles was surprised to see he'd broken out in raised hives all along his forearm and wrist. He felt dizzy, and lightheaded. Stiles pulled out his cell phone, and dialed Scott's number. Scott picked up on the second ring.

"Stiles?" Scott asked. "What's up?"

"Scott? Oh, my God," Stiles shouted. "Dude, I'm freaking out." Stiles stared wildly around him. He was parked in front of the strip mall near the highway. "One minute I'm going into the library, now I'm in my Jeep. I'm parked outside the strip mall. I don't remember how I got here," Stiles told him, taking a shuddering breath.

"Stiles, calm down," Scott told him. "I just saw you in class like, a few hours ago. You said you were going to drive out to the mall, to get a burger. Remember?"

"I don't," Stiles said. "Dude, I'm freaking out here. It's still Tuesday, right?"

Scott was silent for a minute. This worried Stiles even more, and he sat bolt upright in his seat.

"Scott? Is there something you're not telling me?" Stiles asked, clutching his cellphone to his ear. "Please, just tell me."

"Hang on, I'll be there in a few minutes, alright?" Scott told him, worriedly. "Just calm down."

He waited for his best friend to show up. As soon as Stiles saw Scott pull up on his motorcycle, Stiles jumped out of his vehicle, and ran to him. Scott wrapped his arms around Stiles, and listened to his best friend's frantic heartbeat. Scott could tell he was terrified, and it worried Scott because he didn't understand why he was so freaked out. He'd only just seen him a few hours ago, when Stiles had left school.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Scott asked sitting down on the concrete lane divider.

"We were in class. I drove out to the library to work on my history essay," Stiles said, agitated. "When did I change clothes? I was wearing my red hoody." He watched Scott's worried face, realizing that something he'd said had made Scott on edge.

"Stiles, it's Wednesday," Scott finally told him. "Today is Wednesday, not Tuesday. And you were wearing that shirt all day."

"No," Stiles said, in disbelief. "No, it can't be. Why don't I remember what happened for a whole day?" He asked. "_Why can't I remember_?"

Scott had to take a small step back, as he was engulfed in the mixed scent of Stiles' fear and anger. "I've been with you all day, Stiles, in class. We had a pop quiz in biology, pizza for lunch. Drunk driving assembly in fourth period, none of this ringing a bell?" Scott asked, concerned. "You seemed fine. A bit quiet, but normal."

"Scott, I can't remember any of that." Stiles whispered. His stomach flipped, and Stiles' mouth started to water. "Okay, I'm gonna be sick," He muttered, rushing to the garbage can. He barely made it, before he threw up his stomach contents. He retched a few more times.

"Come on," Scott said, putting a hand on Stiles' forehead. His skin was unusually hot to the touch, despite the cool breeze. "I think we need to go to the hospital."

Melissa looked at the rash on Stiles' arm, carefully prodding it with her fingers. "You seem okay," She told the teen. "Apart from this weird rash, and your elevated heart rate, there's nothing medically wrong with you. I don't know what to tell you, Stiles." She said, glancing worriedly at the Sheriff. "John, I don't know what happened to cause his memory loss."

"A whole day missing?" Stiles said, eyes wide. "I had a blackout. What could've caused that? You don't think I'm sick or something, do you?"He asked Melissa, nervously.

"Have you been eating or drinking anything new lately?" Melissa asked.

"I don't know. Scott said I had pizza for lunch," Stiles told her. He could see how worried his dad was.

"Have you taken any drugs lately?" Melissa asked. Stiles shook his head.

"I've only tried pot a few times, but not recently," He admitted, averting his gaze to the floor. He could feel his dad watching him.

"Stiles, I want to keep you here for observation overnight, just to be on the safe side." Melissa told him.

Stiles was lying on his bed, his open chemistry textbook in front of him. He'd been trying to study for the last hour, but he couldn't stay focussed on his homework. His mind kept drifting back to the last few days. He closed his eyes, as he struggled to remember what had happened. What he'd done.

There was a knock on his bedroom door, and Sheriff Stilinski walked in. "Hey, Stiles, can I talk to you?" He asked, in a strained voice.

"Dad, what is it?" Stiles asked, concerned. He watched John sit heavily on the computer chair.

"Son, I need to ask you something. I need you to be completely honest with me. Did you go into the evidence lockup?"

Stiles shrugged. "I don't know. I can't even remember," he said, honestly. "What's going on?"

"Someone broke into the lockup Tuesday night, and stole a gymbag full of cocaine and crystal meth from a recent drug bust. That bag was set to be destroyed. I'm in huge trouble at work, since I was the only one responsible and had the only set of keys." John Stilinski sighed. "Stiles, I could be suspended from my job, if we don't find that bag. You didn't borrow my keys, did you?"

"You think I did that?" Siltes aked, incredulous. "Dad- " he said, hurt.

John's jaw clenched, as he pulled out a DVD in a thin, jewelled case from his jacket. "I think you need to see this," The Sheriff told him, handing the DVD to his son. He stood up, and left the room.

Stiles put the disc in his computer, and started to watch it. It was the security footage from the police station. Stiles noted the time stamp, it was from Tuesday night. Midway through the recording, Stiles paused the screen, and stared in horror. There was no denying that it was, indeed, Stiles who was unlocking the evidence lock-up, and hauling the duffel bag over his shoulder.

He went downstairs, and sat down beside his dad. "I watched the DVD," Stiles told him. "Why would I steal those drugs?" He said, anxiously.

"I don't know."

"Who else has seen that DVD?"

"Just me, and Deputy Parrish. He went through the footage today, when he was looking for the culprit. As soon as he realized it was you, Parrish went straight to my office. I told him I needed to talk to you first, before we told anyone."

"Am I gonna be arrested, or something?" Stiles asked.

"I don't know. But if we can find those drugs, we can sneak them back into the lockup, and no-one has to be any wiser," The Sheriff said. "Which means, I'm going to have to search your room, and your Jeep."

Stiles nodded. "Yeah," He said.


	4. Memory retrieval

Stiles followed his dad upstairs, and watched as the Sheriff started to search Stiles' bedroom.

"If I was going to rob the station, why didn't I cover my face?" Stiles asked, as he sat in the hallway outside of his bedroom. "I mean, I just waltzed in there like the world's worst criminal, knowing full well there's cameras in that place. I'm not wearing a mask, or a hood or anything."

The Sheriff stopped ransacking through his son's room, and turned around. "You just discovered that you stole ten pounds of cocaine, and a shitload of meth, and you seriously are questioning why you chose not to wear a mask?" He asked, incredulous.

"It's a valid question, dad."

Sheriff Stilinski shook his head slowly, unsure how to respond. "Stiles, sometimes you amaze me."

"Only sometimes?" Stiles smirked. "Dude, I'm amazing _all_ the time."

"Well, right now, you're on the verge of getting me fired, and getting your ass thrown in jail. Now, if you were going to hide something major, where would you hide it?"

"Scott's bedroom," Stiles blurted out. "Or in the back of my closet. Did you search the box labelled 'Star Wars figurines?' "

"Too easy, Stiles. That's like, the first place I looked. You should really hide your porn somewhere different."

Stiles felt his face burn, as he picked at the carpet. "Can I come in now? It's my bedroom."

"I don't want you spoiling the crime scene," John told him. "Where else?"

Stiles listed off every hiding place he used, and made a mental note to himself to start using different hiding places from now on. His dad walked out of the bedroom, and sat down beside him.

"Okay, your room's clean. No secret stash of drugs, unfortunately."

"That sounds weird, coming out of your mouth. It's almost like you'd be happy if you had found a stash in my room."

"This time, I would. It'd be easier to just return the bag to the station. But I can't. I'm going to go search your Jeep, then we're taking a ride out to Scott's house."

"You gonna tear apart his bedroom, too?" Stiles asked.

"Hey, he's your usual partner in crime. Maybe he's helping you hide the evidence. Or he could've been your getaway driver, or something."

"Dad, this is kind of ridiculous. Scott's like, my moral compass. He's not gonna help me hide a bagful of meth," Stiles said, reluctantly handing John the keys to his beloved Jeep. "He would've convinced me to turn myself in."

"Yeah, well. I'm just gonna go take a look. Just to see for my own eyes."

Scott opened the door, and was surprised to see Stiles and the Sheriff.

"Hi, Mr. Stilinski," Scott said, as they walked in. He gave Stiles a confused look, but Stiles didn't give him any explanation. Scott raised his eyebrows, and glanced back at the Sheriff.

"What's up?" He asked, curious.

"I would like to search your room, Scott," the Sheriff said, putting a hand on the back of Stiles' neck.

"What' s going on?" Scott asked.

"If I asked you about a certain missing bag full of drugs, would you know what I'm talking about?"

Scott gave him a puzzled look, and shook his head. "No," He said. "But go ahead, and search it if you want."

"I'll let Stiles here fill you in," The Sheriff told him, as he walked upstairs to Scott's room. Scott turned around, and stared at Stiles. The silence was uncomfortable.

"Dude, what the hell's going on?" Scott finally asked, as he watched Stiles sink heavily into the couch. "Missing drugs?"

"So I finally figured out what I was doing on Tuesday night," Stiles said, as Scott sat down beside him. "Deputy Parrish gave my dad the security footage from the police station, and it shows that I stole from the evidence lock-up. A bagful of meth and cocaine."

"Serious?"Scott asked him, shocked. "Why would you do that?"

"I don't know. My dad already searched my room, and the Jeep. He's checking your room to see if maybe you're hiding it for me. He could get suspended or fired, Scott."

"Do you remember anything at all?" Scott asked him.

"I've been trying. I got nothing, though."

Scott mused for a second. "You know when Lydia and I went into your head, and you managed to break away from the nogitsune? Maybe we can try something like that again. I can go into your memories, and see if I can figure out what happened."

Stiles thought about it. "Okay," He said. "But it's super dangerous, isn't it? Maybe we should call Derek and Peter. I know Peter used that mind meld thing to get Isaac's suppressed memories when Erica and Boyd were missing."

"I'm an Alpha – I've done it before," Scott told him, walking behind the couch. He was about to plunge his claw into the back of Stiles' neck, when the Sheriff walked in. Both boys looked up, startled.

"I just searched your room, and - Scott, what are you doing?" John Stilinski asked, surprised. Stiles looked nervously up at his dad.

"I'm going to go through Stiles' memories."

"Do you know what you're doing?" The Sheriff asked. "Is it dangerous?"

"I've done it on him before."

Stiles grabbed his cell phone, and dialed Derek's number. Derek didn't pick up, so Stiles left a quick message, before chucking his phone onto the cushion beside him.

"Okay, do it," Stiles said, gritting his teeth.

"This is gonna hurt," Scott warned Stiles, as his fingers traced the back of Stiles' skull. "Sheriff, you might need to hold him down."

Stiles winced as Scott stuck his claw into the back of his neck, and he automatically tried to pull away. Sheriff Stilinski had a strong grip on his son's arms, making sure he didn't get off the couch.

"Stay still, Stiles," He told him, firmly.

Scott was now inside his best friend's head, able to sift through his recent memories. Scott found himself sitting at his desk in school, and he knew it was still Tuesday afternoon. The teacher was droning on about quadratic equations, and most of the students were desperately writing down the notes off the projector, while a few kids stared off into space.

He watched as the bell rung, and Stiles jumped up from his seat. Shoving his notebook into his backpack, he followed Scott out of the classroom, and they got caught up in the sea of students pushing to get out of the building.

Scott watched as they parted ways, and Stiles got into his Jeep. So far, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Stiles drove to the library, and parked his vehicle outside. He got out, and started to walk to the doors. Scott heard someone calling Stiles' name, and turned to see a short Korean man running up to him. Scott watched as the man blew a powdery dust into his friend's face, and Stiles inhaled.

Hoping to find out what happened next, Scott moved in closer. He was met with a wall of static. Instead of seeing the remainder of Stiles' memories, all he could see was white and black, pixelated static, like on an old TV set. The static was permeating throughout his brain, followed by a loud buzzing sound. The noise intensified, completely filling his head. Scott realized that the loud noise had abruptly turned into screams. It sounded like a banshee. Scott clutched his ears as the screaming painfully rocked through his head. He couldn't see or hear anything else.

"Scott! Scott! Can you hear me?" The panicked voice of Sheriff Stilinski rang out through the overbearing static, and suddenly Scott felt his arm wrenched away from Stiles' neck. Scott fell limply to the floor.

Scott groaned in pain, putting a hand to his bruised head as he opened his eyes. Blood dripped from both his ears, and he stared up at the Sheriff, dazed. He felt dizzy, the pain in his ears hadn't dissipated after he'd severed the connection.

"Scott?" The Sheriff asked, concerned. He'd watched as Scott had attempted to retrieve his son's memories, but he'd gotten worried when Scott had suddenly winced, and doubled over. His claw was still firmly latched onto Stiles' neck. John reached out and grabbed Scott's shoulder.

"Scott, are you okay?" He asked, scared. He'd never seen this process before, didn't know what to expect. Was this just part of the procedure? The Sheriff noted the pained look on Stiles' face, as his son struggled to break free.

"Scott? Scott! Can you hear me?" He asked. Scott's mouth dropped open, and he moaned in pain as he clutched his ear. John saw the trickle of blood running through Scott's fingers, and he quickly reacted. He grabbed Scott's hand, and pushed him away from Stiles. He wanted to separate the link between the two boys. Stiles slumped forward, crashing into his dad. John quickly caught him under the arms, and pushed him upright on the couch. He watched as Scott fell down, the floor shook as the teen made contact with the wooden floor.

"Stiles, you alright?" John asked, as Stiles' head dropped to his chest in exhaustion. He nodded, eyes tightly closed.

"Yeah," Stiles whispered. "Just hurts."

The Sheriff turned his son's head to the side, and stared at the wound on the back of his son's neck. The small puncture wound on the base of Stiles' skull was oozing a thin trail of blood down the back of Stiles' neck.


	5. Peter's money

"What the hell were you thinking, Scott?" Derek asked, indignant, as he knelt beside him. He dabbed the wet washcloth against Scott's ear, wiping away the blood. Derek glared down at the alpha. "You could've killed the both of you. That was a very dangerous risky procedure."

Stiles jumped up, and stood beside Derek and Scott. "Scott was only trying to help. And we _did_ try to call you! You didn't answer your phone."

Derek huffed. "I was in the shower – I didn't get your message until it was too late. I came over as soon as I could," Derek said, annoyed. "Stiles, I got your message, but you guys didn't even wait until I could respond. You should've at least waited a few minutes, before jumping into something like this."

"I'm sorry," Scott said, as he stared up at Derek. "I was only trying to help." He could barely hear Derek, and he was attempting to lip read the majority of what Derek shouted at him. The Sheriff handed Scott a glass of water, and two Tylenol.

"Thanks," Scott muttered, gulping them down.

"Scott, you just perforated both of your eardrums. You're lucky it'll heal," The Sheriff said, sitting down beside him. "What did you see?"

"Static."

"You alright?"

"Yeah, it hurts, though. There was a man talking to Stiles at the library," Scott said, turning to Stiles. "Do you remember that? It was a Korean guy in a jean jacket, and short-cropped hair. He was driving a Cadillac."

Stiles nodded. "Yeah," He said. "He called my name, and I went to talk to him. I don't remember what he asked me, though."

"I saw him blow a handful of white powder in your face," Scott said. "What was that all about?"

"I dunno," Stiles said. "I don't remember that."

"Wait," Sheriff Stilinski interrupted. "You said he was driving a Cadillac? I think I know who you're talking about. I'm pretty sure I pulled him over the other night for speeding, gave him a ticket."

"You know who he is?" Derek asked, turning to the Sheriff. "What's his name?"

"Ah, crap. I can't remember the guy's name. He was from out of town, though. Iowa, I think," John told him. "I can go to the station, and look him up."

Dennis packed up his belongings, and stored them away in the backseat of his vehicle. It made him smile to think of the duffel bag he had hidden in the trunk of his car, under a blanket. Dennis had been watching the local news, hoping to see if Sheriff Stilinski had been fired or suspended over the missing drugs, but so far, he'd been sorely disappointed. As far as he could tell, getting the kid to steal from the police station hadn't had the desired effect he'd been after. Oh, well. He still had the bag in his possession, and he was hoping to sell it for a profit. Not in Beacon Hills, though. Dennis was preparing to leave town in a few days, and use the drugs to finance his road trip. He was nearly out of money, after splurging the remainder on fancy dinners, and new clothes. Dennis didn't have enough money to pay for another week at the motel, so technically he was now living out of his car as of that night.

Dennis drove to the mall, and bought a large drink from the Orange Julius. He wanted to anonymously people-watch, so he took a seat on the bench, and watched the crowd. It was Thursday night, and he was looking for his next mark, hopefully someone who had a lot of money. Someone who could finance enough money for a hotel room, something nicer this time, and a tankful of gas. Enough for a few nice dinners, hopefully.

Dennis' attention turned to a man in a very low cut V-neck t-shirt, browsing the clothing racks across from Dennis' seat. The man in the clothing store, seemed oblivious that he was being watched. Dennis tilted his head to the side, and watched as the man picked out a few outfits to try on. Very _expensive_ outfits.

Dennis waited until the man paid for his purchases, before he stood up and started trailing behind him. He had his phone out, pretending to text with one hand, while he slurped on his Orange Julius. The mall was packed with teens, and parents pushing their babies in strollers, and he had to be careful to not bump into anybody. Dennis didn't want to take out his stash of Devil's Breath until he was in a more secluded location. He didn't want to attract any unwanted attention. Dennis followed him down the stairs to the parkade.

"You following me?" The man asked, turning sharply around to stare at Dennis. Dennis froze, drink halfway to his mouth.

"What?" He asked, innocently. "Me?"

"Yeah, you," The man told him, cocking an eyebrow. "What's your problem?"

The man took a step forward, glaring at Dennis. He was a head taller than him, and his stare was intimidating. Dennis gulped.

"Look, I don't want any trouble," He said, putting his drink down on the floor of the parkade. He reached for the metal tin in his pocket, and popped off the lid. Dennis grabbed a handful of the white powder. He flung it into the man's face, and watched as the man coughed, and sneezed on the white cloud.

"What's your name?" Dennis asked, sealing the tin. He picked up his drink, and sipped on it as he walked to his car.

"Peter Hale," The man told him. "Who are you?"

"Dennis Cleary," he replied. "Get in."

Peter put his shopping bag in the backseat, and sat down.

"Tell me, Peter, you're rich, right?"

Peter nodded, as he folded his long legs to fit into the front seat of the cramped Cadillac.

"Tell me who else in this crummy town is loaded. I need money, lots of it," Dennis told him, starting the vehicle.

"Apart from me and my nephew, I'd have to say that'd be the Whittemore's, or Natalie Martin."

"How much money do you have?" Dennis asked, interested.

"I had millions. I was recently robbed, I guess somebody beat you to it," Peter told him.

"Give me your money. All of it," Dennis said, glancing at him. "What bank do you use?"

"No bank," Peter smirked. "My family has their own vault."

"All right. Where is this vault of yours?"

"At the high school."

Dennis gave the man a surprised look. "What?" He asked, his eyes going wide.

Peter gave him a wide grin. "It's my family's vault, and it's at the high school. I'm not lying."

"Okay, fine. How much do you have in the vault?" Dennis asked, impatiently.

"It's empty," Peter said, bitterly. Dennis gave Peter a sidelong glance, and rolled his eyes. Just great. He was getting nowhere with this guy – maybe he'd chosen the wrong victim. Dennis contemplated dropping Peter off at the side of the road.

"I have a few thousand in the bank, though," Peter told him.

"Next stop, ATM." Dennis grinned. His heart leapt as he thought about stealing the man's savings. It would be enough to last him a few weeks on the road, if he was careful. Definitely afford better than some crappy, road-side motel and diner. Maybe he could even get a hotel with a pool this time.


	6. Death omen

The Sheriff drove Scott and Stiles to the police station, with Derek following behind in his vehicle. It had begun to pour, raindrops bouncing off the street, and gushing down the hill into sewer grates. The parking lot was nearly empty when they pulled in; most people had already gone home a few hours ago. Rain splashed against the windows loudly, and the roof of the vehicle.

"I'll be right back," Sheriff Stilinski told them. "I'm going to go get that man's name, so we can pay him a visit. Hopefully, he hasn't left town, yet." He told them, as he put his jacket over his head, and ran into the station. Stiles watched the wipers work furiously, as they waited for his dad to return.

"I heard screaming when I was in your head," Scott remembered, as he sat in the back seat. Scott's ears had healed, and he was able to hear properly again. "It sounded like a banshee."

"Was it Lydia?" Stiles asked, worried.

"I don't know."

Stiles called her on the phone, and she picked up right away.

"Stiles? Are you okay?" She asked, breathless. "I called your house phone, but you didn't answer. I think something bad's gonna happen. I was in my room, and I started screaming, and I don't know who – "

"Lydia, I know. Scott heard you, we're at the police station. Can you come over?" Stiles asked.

"My car's dead," Lydia told him, looking out the window at the pouring rain. She considered walking, but by the time she'd get to the station, Lydia knew she would be soaked.

Stiles glanced over to the vehicle parked beside him, and saw Derek watching him. He rolled down his window, and stuck his head out.

"Can you go pick up Lydia?" Stiles yelled, jumping as lightning flashed across the sky.

"I'll go pick her up," Derek said, starting his engine. "I have to stop by at the loft anyway, and change into something dry," He said, looking down at his rain-soaked clothes.

"Lydia, Derek's coming to pick you up," Stiles told her, as he rolled up the window. "He's just leaving now – he should be there in a few minutes."

"Okay, thanks," She said, hanging up. Lydia grabbed her jacket, and ran out to the porch to wait for Derek.

"Peter, are you here?" Derek called out in annoyance, as he walked into the loft with Lydia. His uncle's laptop and books were spread out on the kitchen table, his cell phone was sitting on the kitchen counter.

"Where are you?" Derek called out. The loft was deathly quiet.

"Maybe he went out?" Lydia suggested, sitting down at the table. "I didn't see his car out front."

"I'm gonna change," Derek told her. "I'll be right back."

Derek ran upstairs to his room, and slipped into a dry Henley, and a pair of jeans. He carried his sodden clothes to the laundry room, and dumped them into the washing machine. Derek grabbed a pair of socks out of the laundry basket, and pulled them on. Derek heard Lydia talking to someone downstairs, as he walked down the spiral stairs.

Peter was sitting at the table, his laptop open. Lydia watched Peter type, looking uncomfortable. Derek noticed his uncle's hair and clothes were dry, and he automatically presumed Peter had driven home. It didn't occur to Derek to question him, or he would've discovered that Dennis had dropped Peter off once he'd withdrawn all his savings for the man.

"Where were you?" Derek asked, grabbing his sneakers out of the hall closet, and tying the laces. He watched as Peter glanced up at him. He blinked, and gave Derek a confused look.

"What?" He finally asked.

"Tell me where you were," Derek repeated. He wondered about his uncle's behaviour, noting that he was acting slightly more unusual than normal. He seemed distracted, and to be honest, a bit sickly.

"Oh, I went to the mall to get some new clothes," Peter told him, gesturing to the large bag at his feet.

"What'd you get?" He asked, walking over. Derek peered into the bag, and took in the folded shirts, and the large jacket. Derek could hear his uncle's heart beating way more rapidly than it should. Peter's face was flushed, and his eyelids were drooping tiredly. Derek hesitated, as Lydia followed him to the door.

"You feeling alright?" He asked, watching Peter start to scratch his arm, painfully gouging into the skin. Peter didn't answer him, his attention focussed entirely on the rash forming on his skin.

"Peter, stop scratching," Derek told him, reaching out to grab his wrist. Peter obediently stopped, and dropped his hand to his lap. Derek reared back in surprise, when he caught a glimpse of the man's dilated pupils.

"What the hell . . ." Derek said, in surprise. He watched as Peter stood up and started to walk to the bathroom, a little unsteady on his feet.

Lydia gave Derek a concerned look, as she watched Peter grab the beam, his eyes clenched shut.

"Peter?" Derek asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you sit down?"

"I'm fine," Peter told him, shrugging his hand off. "I'm so thirsty," He said, walking into the kitchen. Derek could hear the tap running, as Peter chugged a glass of water.

"Should we go?" Lydia asked, hesitantly lifting her eyebrows at Derek. "Is he sick?"

"I dunno," Derek told her. He was torn between leaving with Lydia, and staying a few more minutes to make sure his uncle was okay. There was a loud crash from the kitchen, and Derek quickly ran into the room to see if Peter was alright. Derek froze, when he saw that Peter was lying on the ground, convulsing . Derek ran to Peter, and quickly rolled the man on his side. He used his sleeve to sweep away the shards of glass away from them. He'd never seen Peter have a seizure in his whole life, and it terrified him. Peter's breathing was harsh, his mouth frothing.

"Call 911!" He shouted to Lydia, as she stared in horror as Peter writhed. Lydia pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. She quickly told the operator what had happened, as she watched Peter continue to shake. Peter finally stopped convulsing, his body fully relaxed. Derek was relieved to hear Peter's breathing start to return to normal, though he was unresponsive, and his eyes had rolled back in his head. Lydia watched Derek hold his uncle's hand, leeching the pain. The continuous, black pain shot upwards through Derek's veins, as he sat on the tiled floor.

"Is he gonna be okay?" Lydia asked him, worried. She reached out and touched Derek's arm, trying to comfort him. Lydia hoped that Peter would be all right – asshole that he was, the man was still a member of Derek's family.

When she'd started screaming earlier, her mind had immediately jumped to her friends and family. Her mom, Scott, Stiles, Derek, Kira, Malia, Liam, the Sheriff, Melissa McCall, everyone she could think of. Hoping that they would be okay, that she wouldn't have to attend another funeral. Lydia had jumped on the phone, calling everyone to make sure they were okay, checking in. It hadn't occurred to her to add Peter to that list.

"The ambulance should be here any minute," Lydia told him. She watched as Derek reached down, and touched the collar of Peter's shirt. There were flecks of white powder dusting the collar of his black shirt, and Derek wondered what they from. He stood up, staring down at his uncle. Lydia wrapped her arms around Derek's chest, her head against his chest, as they waited tensely for the ambulance.


End file.
